


How Bright a Flame

by athena_crikey



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Cruelty, Gen, Gore, It never ends well, Mentions of Rape, Parental Feels, Rebirth, Takes place before the first successful escape attempt, h/c, mortals disrespecting gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29981700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: “May Hades strike you for your disrespect,” mutters Zagreus. He has hardly any breath left, the world dimming. He tries to reach for his spear, but his fingers merely twitch.He didn’t intend the words as a summons. Would never, even now, knowingly call on the lord of Hades for help.But that is who appears in a foul cloud of brimstone shot through with bright sparks.OR: Hades may not esteem his son, but that doesn't mean he'll permit anyone else to disrespect him.
Relationships: Hades & Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 139





	How Bright a Flame

Unlike Athena who sprang fully-armoured from her father’s forehead, or Aphrodite who rose in a vision of sea foam and loveliness from the waves, Zagreus is born in the mortal manner, as an infant. He is tiny, and pale and – he does not learn until much later – not breathing. Exit Persephone, enter Nyx.

Zagreus grows quickly under famous tutelage, learning history from Homer and philosophy from Socrates and combat from Achilles. He is educated as a prince should be, taught to proclaim and declaim, encouraged towards pride moderated by esteem, and to fidelity moderated by nothing but his oaths of fealty. 

Coming of age in the House of Hades has a different meaning than to mortals, because of course Zagreus is ageless, although he does grow from infant to boy to man. His lord father decrees that he will come of age when his education is complete, when he knows all he needs to take up his office as prince serving his father and his domain. 

When that day finally comes it’s with pomp Zagreus has never known, with bright banners and silken finery and feasts served in the best dishes the house has to offer. Speeches are made and lays are sung (although not by Orpheus, lingering jaundiced and silent in the corner) and dances danced. Meg gets drunk and kisses Zagreus in front of half the company and is banished to her duty of guarding Tartarus for the remaining festivities; Hypnos grants him a favour to be asked at a later date; Charon gifts him rare coins (all in pairs). Nyx gives him his manly clothes, marvelous robes of red and black, his father’s colours. 

When all the feasting and singing is done and the drunken revellers have revived, Zagreus is presented to his lord father at the end of the hall, his desk for once taken away, even Cerberus’ bed temporarily moved to provide space for the spectacle. 

Hades towers over him in his robes of office, Achilles beside him holding his lord’s weapon. Zagreus stands proudly before him, trying to keep a smile off his face. This is what he’s been waiting for, training for, his whole life. 

“My son comes of age today,” rumbles Hades, his voice deep as the sea that drowns men and swallows their bodies forever. “He has always been a prince of this realm, as is his birthright. He comes now into the powers and responsibilities of a son of Hades, and he will be honoured as such.”

Nyx steps forward with a red cushion in her arms; atop it lies a crown of laurels. The colour shifts like flame in the low light of the underworld, from red to orange to gold. Just the same as his father’s, only smaller. Zagreus can’t help but grin at her; she remains impassive but her eyes twinkle.

Hades takes the crown in his hands and places it on Zagreus’ head. It’s warm, its weight somehow comforting. Right.

“From today, you bow to none but me, you pledge to none but me, you serve none but me. Understand?”

“I understand, Father,” says Zagreus. 

“Very well. But remember this: while you are my son and my willing general, you will never be my heir. Hades belongs to Hades, or it will rot and perish.”

Zagreus blinks upwards, confused. Hurt. “Father?”

“I grant you the title of prince and my power, but not an inheritance. Do not expect it of me.” He motions to the guests lining the hall and they cheer, the noise deafening. It drowns out Zagreus’ quiet words entirely:

“I don’t understand.”

  
***

The celebrations die down finally, Zagreus released from drunken toasting and well-wishes. The guests trickle away and night (such as it is) finally falls. The house is quiet, littered with stained napkins and empty bottles, but at peace.

Zagreus slips through the silence to the door to his father’s chambers, guarded as ever by Achilles. “You should be asleep, lad,” he says kindly. “I’m sure Morpheus will grant you pleasant dreams tonight.”

“I must speak with Father, Achilles. Just briefly. Please?”

“He does not welcome interruptions after he’s retired,” says the Greek, frowning. 

“When have I ever asked before?” It’s true, he’s never been one to beg favours of anyone. Especially not Achilles, who he respects beyond measure. 

Achilles sighs. “You’ll be quick?”

“As a swift,” promises Zagreus, who’s never seen any sort of bird in person. 

“Very well.” The warrior steps aside and the door clicks open.

Zagreus steps into his father’s rooms and gets no further than the entryway. “What are you doing here?” demands his lord father, striding in already on the edge of rage. 

“I wanted to see you, Father,” says Zagreus. “Don’t blame Achilles, I begged the favour from him. I’m told none can resist my sweet countenance.” He smiles winningly. 

“Insolence,” mutters Hades. And then: “What is it you want? Be quick.”

Zagreus looks up at his father’s hulking form, unafraid. “I want to know what you meant. When you said I’m not your heir. I’m your only son, how can I not be?”

“Mortals choose heirs to pass on their pathetic clutter to before they lose their lives. Gods have no need of heirs. We cannot die.”

“Then what is the purpose of these clothes? This crown?” demands Zagreus, pulling the laurels from his dark hair. “If I am never to come into my own what does it matter what titles you grant me?”

“You are a god, boy, and my son. Gods inherit nothing, they simply _are_. You are due respect. Your lineage demands it.”

Zagreus stares back. “I was taught respect must be earned,” he replies uncertainly, crown in hand.

“By mortals. Gods are divine, are infinite, undying. We are all worthy of respect, of reverence. Even you. Never forget that. Never forget your pride.” He lays his hand on Zagreus’ shoulder; it’s heavy, strong. “Your crown comes to your head from my hands. It is a gift for you alone, a gift that shows how bright a flame burns in Hades. Never take it off.” And he takes it from Zagreus’ hands and returns it to its place. 

“Now return to your chambers. Tomorrow you take your place at my side.”

  
***

_Many years later_

It’s snowing. Just lightly, the flakes large and soft as feathers and falling to blanket the ground in icy cold. As if to remind him of the inhospitable world he seeks so far from the warmth of his home. 

Zagreus reaches the edge of the Temple of Styx anticipating his father, anticipating an opportunity to make up for his previous failures. He’s fallen to his father’s spear three times now – there won’t be a fourth. 

But it’s not Hades who stands in the snowscape beyond the Styx. The warrior there is smaller, though still larger than Zagreus, dressed in Greek armour long since out of date. He carries a broad-bladed sword and a small shield for turning blows rather than blocking them. His features are weak, his brown hair messily braided and tangled, unkempt. He wears no circlet, no crown. 

“Ah, young Hades. I’ve been waiting for you. Your lord father sent me here to greet you. I fear he had more important matters at hand.” His tone is slightly mocking, his broad mouth curled in a faint sneer.

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” says Zagreus stiffly, ready to call out his spear at the first sign of enmity. 

“There was a time when all – mortals or gods – knew my name. Even you, cooped up in your father’s house like a hen waiting to be plucked, will have heard of me. I am Ajax.”

Zagreus knows Ajax the Great, a kingly man with kind eyes and broad shoulders. He resides in Elysium, crowned with green laurels for his deeds. This, then, must be the lesser Ajax. “Yes, I know you now,” says Zagreus. “How comes the man who defiled the priestess of Athena and was sentenced to stoning by Odysseus to be acting in my father’s stead?” 

“Careful boy. Speak not of matters which you do not understand. I am a hero – I would be treated as such.”

“I was taught respect should be earned,” replies Zagreus. “I know many who fought in your war, and I both love and honour them. But you, I do not know.”

“Then let me teach you with my blade,” announces Ajax, and draws his sword. Zagreus pulls his spear to hand, and soon the snow is shot through with tracks and furrows.

As always, Zagreus is at a disadvantage. He has travelled through four regions of hostile enemies to reach this point, has battled his way past Meg and the Hydra and Theseus and Asterius. His hands are bloody with burst callouses, his body bruised and battered. 

And Ajax, despite his diminutive appellation, is fresh and strong. He once nearly bested Odysseus in a foot race before Athena intervened, so Zagreus has heard, and his speed now is wicked. Zagreus has divine swiftness but he’s hampered by his heavy long-range weapon. Ajax dodges out of reach of Zagreus’ spear and then darts in under it, his shorter weapon more maneuverable, to score the prince’s body with cuts and gouges. He is cruel in his attacks, often choosing wounds to maim rather than severely damage – taking joy in Zagreus’ grunts of pain. And his taunts are constant.

“I have heard the great Achilles taught you to fight. I think he would weep to see you now!”

And: “Such a pathetic offspring of so great a sire. No wonder Lord Hades keeps you a close secret – you disgrace him, boy!”

And even: “How can you believe yourself worthy of Olympus? A strutting pretty-boy like you should know your place: playing whore to the good and the great. Or were you born without balls as well as without talent?”

“I’m no cat’s paw of yours,” replies Zagreus, hot with sweat and disgust. Ajax jams the pommel of his sword into Zagreus’s jaw, cracking the bone, and he spits blood.

It ends when Zagreus loses his footing, tripping over a hidden rock and leaving himself exposed. Ajax flies in and runs him straight through, severing his spine and drawing out a fountain of blood to stain the snow crimson. Zagreus collapses with a grunt, his upper body in fiery pain, his lower numb. His spear rolls from his grip and he looks upwards at the grey sky. The clouds are thick, snow still falling. Beautiful. 

“Well then.” Ajax looks down at him, his grin spiteful. “Will you say you respect me now, little princeling?”

Zagreus takes a slow, agonizing breath. His chest is full of nails, their rusty lengths driving into him with each movement. “I will not. You’re contemptable, Ajax.” Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, painting a hot stripe down his bruised cheek.

“Then I believe you have no right to the title given you,” says Ajax, almost jauntily. He reaches out and plucks Zagreus’ fiery crown from his head. Zagreus chokes on a gasp, shocked and outraged. He watches, amazed at Ajax’s boldness, as the warrior lifts the crown and places it atop his own head. But then, this is a man who insulted a priestess of Athena in her own temple. And now mocks a son of Hades in his own domain.

“How dare you?” Zagreus’ voice is low, just a whisper, but it rumbles like distant thunder. His fury is hot as the rivers of Asphodel that can burn even the gods. 

“I dare many things. That is why I am up here while you are down there, spilling your innards on the ground.” He presses his sandal against the gaping wound in Zagreus’ stomach. Excruciating agony rips through Zagreus’ upper half, his head thrown back against the icy ground, his fingers digging ruts into the snow. His hot skin is melting it, water mixing with blood beneath his body. 

He screams. 

Ajax smiles. 

“They’re so beautiful when they scream,” he murmurs. “Even you, boy. Mm, we could have some fun together, you and I. You would like that, wouldn’t you? Kneeling before your new lord?” He strokes the crimson crown. 

“May Hades strike you for your disrespect,” mutters Zagreus. He has hardly any breath left, the world dimming. He tries to reach for his spear, but his fingers merely twitch.

He didn’t intend the words as a summons. Would never, even now, knowingly call on the lord of Hades for help. 

But that is who appears in a foul cloud of brimstone shot through with bright sparks; even from where Zagreus lies he can feel the familiar heat of it on his skin, warming his pale flesh. It shouldn’t be comforting. But it is. “ _You_ would summon _me_ ,” Father begins as he strides wrathfully from the smoke, eyes snapping like embers. 

Zagreus is losing his grasp on the world, his body nearly emptied of blood, his bones growing cold as the snow begins to freeze to him. It burns like fire, which seems strange when it’s the opposite, its frosty kisses painful. But he is nearly beyond pain, now. He’ll be going, soon. The world is already growing grey. 

“Lord Hades,” begins Ajax, and gets no further. 

“Cursed wretch, what betrayal is this?” booms his father, picking up his huge weapon and lumbering forward with focused speed. “I grant you an honour and you mock me in my own domain? You dare to take my crown – the crown of Hades – from my son? Do you think yourself worthy of its flames?”

“Lord, I –”

“Then know _my_ flames, shade,” snarls Hades. Fire envelopes Ajax, so hot it’s blue at the centre, the licking tips gold-yellow. Zagreus watches as he crumbles, screaming, and then vanishes. All that remains is his crown, red against the white snow. 

Hades bends and picks it up, his enormous fingers gentle. He crosses to Zagreus, his figure in shadows, greys fading towards black.

Zagreus feels his head lifted from the snow, feels the crown slipped back in place, warm against his freezing skull. “To your head from my hands.” Hades’ voice is low, rough as the broken floors of Tartarus. His fingers brush against Zagreus’ temples, soft as snow.

“Father…” he can say no more, blood foaming on his lips, his last breath filling his lungs. 

Darkness falls.

“I’ll see you at home,” he hears, just faintly, from far away. 

Maybe he dreamed it.

  
***

Zagreus emerges from the Styx already reaching up to feel his crown in place where it belongs. _Good._

Father is at the end of the hall as always, as though nothing had happened. Zagreus steps up to him, cleanly cutting off a shade queuing for its turn. 

“Father.”

Lord Hades raises his eyes from his parchment, glances down at him. “You again,” he says dryly. 

“Yes, me again. Don’t worry, I won’t be here for long.”

Father snorts. 

“Can I… can I expect to meet you again, across the Styx?” he asks, nonchalantly. 

“Perhaps some things are best attended to personally,” agrees his father.

 _Like killing your son?_ Thinks Zagreus, but for once restrains himself. Because he’s right. This is personal. Between them and no one else. “Then I’ll see you above. I’ll be going all the way, this time.”

END


End file.
